“As I said, I don’t think Maggie’s expecting visitors. I’m not even sure she’s home.” Barely the truth.

And Tatum knew it. “Maggie Muir is rarely anywhere else.”

Because she still lugged around so much hurt. Because she’d lost too much. Because, with her being a Muir, people had expectations of her . . . and she’d grown weary of meeting them. He’d watched it happen in recent years. Had a front-row seat to her gradual closing-off.

Greta Turner—she’d been the tipping point. Eating away the last of Maggie’s easy trust of anyone outside their small family circle.

He tried once more to put off Tatum. “Maybe if you call in advance next time—”

“Look, I know what you’re trying to do, son. You’ve made it quite clear where you stand on the sale of the Muir land. But it struck me last night—my offer isn’t yours to reject or accept. This land belongs to Maggie, not you. You’re not a Muir.”

It shouldn’t feel like such a slug to the gut. Tatum’s words, the truth they held. He gave up the attempt to keep his hands unclenched. They balled inside his pockets, knuckles tight. Probably white.

Tatum held up both hands in a surrender pose. “But I can understand if now isn’t the best time. I’ll take your advice and call in advance next time.”

Next time. There would be one. He didn’t doubt it.

Tatum slowed as he approached his truck, angling to face Neil once more. “Did you even ask her about selling after we spoke yesterday? I wonder if that’s what you’re truly concerned about—that Maggie will want what you don’t.”

He couldn’t find a reply—not a single word. He simply stood there, watching as Tatum hefted himself into the truck and drove away, dust kicking up behind him.

The box Sydney hauled from the attic this morning had been calling her name all day.

But not until now had she had the opportunity to slip away to the privacy of the room she currently called her own.

From somewhere down the hall, the sound of Indi’s voice drifted through the walls, until the latch of a door cut off her muffled conversation. Probably on the phone with that fiancé she’d talked about all through dinner.

Sydney cinched the belt of the fluffy pink robe she’d found in her bedroom’s closet. Might’ve been Diana’s once upon a time, though it wasn’t nearly as faded as she might’ve expected if it were really that old. The plastic tub of scrapbooks awaited her on her bed.

It had taken her and Maggie more than an hour to locate it in the attic this morning, and by then, Maggie had seemed completely done in. By the search and the dusty air of the attic? Or from their conversation?

“There’s, um, there’s this photo . . . I guess I sort of stole it from my birth . . . from CarleeAnn Picknell when I met her. We met just the one time. She was dying. She didn’t say much. But there was this photo on her bedside table. I . . . I shouldn’t have taken it.” Sydney had finally let out a huff of frustration at her own inability to speak in more than stilted starts and stops. “There were three young people in the photo—CarleeAnn and another girl. I didn’t know until Wilder showed me a picture of Diana that it was her. And there’s a young man in the photo, too, and according to the note on the back his name is JP—or maybe those are his initials. And I can’t help wondering . . .”